


until.

by esquitor



Series: wither we will while we wander [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Basically, Body Horror, Darkfic, M/M, Telepathy, Torture, Unrequited, Whipping, Wingfic, attempted mindfuck, mindgames, no one can have nice things, sempai notice me, sort of body horror, torture of orcs anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esquitor/pseuds/esquitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>melkor loves himself, all that he does, all that he can do. and mairon will love him for it until he cannot love anymore.</p><p>semi-stream of conscious written, un-beta'd</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this red sea parts for him.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=5315856#t5315856
> 
> Mairon (Sauron) obsessed with Morgoth and tortures creatures to get his attention but Morgoth just seems to tolerate him. 
> 
> Shameless unrequited that may/may not include wing!fic, attempted telepathic sexual advances, etc.
> 
> \--
> 
> in medieval/old English, 'thou' (and accompanying thee, thy, and thine) was considered informal, intimate, or disrespectful. 'you' (ye, your, yours) was the formal term of address. not that we have any real basis for this being canon but man i do what i want, okay, it's like 6000 b.c. it's old middle-earthian

His arm moves methodically as a hammer upon an anvil. The forge is deep within his chest, the beating of the world's core, the flow of lava beneath the crust, earth heaving to suck air between its cracks. The Ainur are spirit entombed in flesh of their own making, forms of their own design and designation. Such was the requirement for setting foot upon Eä after it was complete.

Ah, but it wasn't complete. It was never complete in _his_ eyes, he who sought more than what was and what is. He who has become Arda, or perhaps always has been.

Mairon leans a shoulder against the doorway, metal ringed fingers clenching upon the opposite arm. He heard the screams from the top of the stairs, three flights up, through two heavy metal doors. They break so easily, he might say. But Melkor will say then that they are not breaking, that he is not breaking them. That he is creating with whip and flail as easily and as well as Mairon does with a chisel and pick. It is two weeks and he sees nothing created.

Is armor forged in a day, Melkor would ask.

' _There are other things you may lay your hand upon, or whip,_ ' Mairon speaks by their mind, the quiet language of the Ainur before speech was come, for forms that had no mouths. ' _Things that may not break so easily_.'

 _Myself_ , he thinks privately, and in the future perhaps may come to regret his words.

' _I **create** ,_' rebuffs Melkor. Mairon recoils further into the shadows.

Sweat runs down the Vala's back in rivulets by the heat of his exertions, glistening in the light of a cold torch. He steps forward, lays his hand upon Melkor's arm, and is met with a sudden deafening silence punctuated with sobs and heaving breaths. Where Melkor's grip is like the grinding of earth-plates beneath their feet, Mairon's fingers are dancing light in their plying. Melkor's gaze is dark, fiery and piercing, where Mairon is shadowed and shuttered, downcast.

"If I may, my Lord," he says lowly until the handle lies smooth in his palm. "Show me where to strike."

Melkor leans in, murmurs into his ear, and Mairon's arm rises and falls with the prickling of his skin. Sobbing gives way to cries, the Elf strains in chains as welts ripen like berries upon his back.

"They come into this world knowing no pain," Melkor breathes across his skin, still hovering behind him. "They wake with knowledge only of _singing_. So we teach them pain, and we teach them to scream. We teach them Darkness and Corruption."

What is right and what is wrong; what is light, what is dark; what is moral, what is amoral, or immoral, or good or evil. Things that are not given to the Ainur, he thinks, equally. For they are borne from the mind of Eru, the One, but they are _not_ the mind of Eru. They know, collectively, that which He knows; they want, collectively, that which He wants; they are, collectively, that which He is. They are a part of Him, not replicas, and some of them receive less of one thing than another.

(He would know later, or did know, that Melkor in fact bore all of Eru's thoughts.)

Of Mairon he shares Aulë's passion for crafts, his love for Eä, and has himself a will to give or find order and reason in all that is done. He forges with metals, he raises mountains and delves caves, carves rifts and valleys and canyons and decorates rocksides with minerals and gemstones. For the Eldar, he believed, for the Children of Eru. They would forge as he forged, build as he build, mine what he put down, and he would see their crafts with his eyes and he would be proud.

So when Melkor had stridden past and torn down their cliffs, smit their fields, and left pools of molten earth where stood a plateau, Mairon could do naught but look on in contempt. For all of their efforts and works were thwarted, destroyed, and there were left only a savaged landscape that they must restore to its natural state before again building upon it. They called him wicked, the other Maiar, childish in his actions, destructive in his constructions, and Mairon only agreed for he felt slighted. His caverns were swollen with lava and his minerals and gems molten down, and nothing was left.

He had (has) no fear, not of the Vala, though their power be greater and Melkor's greater still.

"Why dost thou go among us and throw down that which we raise? Dost thou delight in chaos and in belittling our efforts?"

"I do," Melkor had sneered, and towered over the Maia. "I create what I wish, where I wish. And if thou likest it not, thou may endeavor to stay my hand."

And he had tried. They all had tried, from building quickly and protecting their mountains and caves with trenches and spiked floors to rebuilding when they were smote, fortifying them and making them stronger; but their attempts were in vain, and in time the Valar came to ignore the doings of Melkor, and the Maiar came to dislike him and the fire he brought forth.

Yet Mairon had seen not the doings of Melkor or the fire he brought, or the mountains he laid to waste, the caves he quashed. He came to see only the power with which Melkor made all his doings, and he came to love it and all that he did, that he _could_ do it and there were _none who could stop him_.

He did not stay Melkor's hand now because he did not want to see this beautiful (pitiful) creature be harmed. He took the whip so that he might show Melkor his love, for him and his power. That he will disfigure and shame a Child of Eru in the name of Melkor, He Who Arises In Might. For there is no right and wrong, no good or evil, that exists in the mind of Mairon; only that which has power and that which does not.

When Melkor calls for a cease and Mairon coils the whip, blood clings to his fingers and his rings. He swipes a thumb over his own mouth, painting his lips with a smear of dull red, and smiles.

Melkor scowls.


	2. we are still made of greed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some liberties taken with the form-changing aspect of the maiar. i've been listening to too much imagine dragons u_u
> 
> minor warnings for.. minor body horror? body modification? nothing gore-y.

That which would later come to be known as _night_ reigns strong still, for there is yet nothing to compare to it as _day_ , save for the Lights in the north and the south. High above, the stars gleam tauntingly as specks of light (and darkness) that they could never have to hold, the Valacirca a message of challenge to his Lord Melkor. In this time all creatures are adapted to the dusk, and Yavanna's domain needs no light to grow but flourishes beneath dusk blue skies.

Mairon flies, winged as his bat companions are from the Iron Mountains. Their chittering sounds are to his ears like music that he still loves, though Melkor found them annoying and obtrusive. But they were good scouts, good eyes and ears, ingenious creations of Eru that were one of the few warm-blooded creatures to know flight. This form he takes, arms replaced with wings like a shadow, his hair a mane of fur, and it is in this form that he lands before the gates of Utumno. Melkor is waiting.

He watches as Mairon's limbs rearrange themselves and skin retracts into flesh, watches Mairon fall gracefully (clumsily) to his knee when he can, wings resting at an awkward angle.

"My Lord Melkor." Mairon's head lowers, shifting as his elbow is realigned to its proper position. "Do you require of me some manner of service?"

He doesn't expect a reply, at least, not to his ill-hidden suggestion. The Vala has scarce responded to any that he has made since they came to Utumno, or even before then.

Melkor's heavy armored hand spans lightly over the webbing as if he has never seen it before; and perhaps he hasn't. He unfurls one wing, testing the tightness of the membrane and tracing lines of red until he reaches bone, right up unto his shoulder. Though the air is not chill, Mairon shivers when Melkor's hands alight upon his side, pressing gently and firmly where skin meets skin. He looks up through dark lashes, chances an image (a position, if one would) to flash through their minds—

_Iron-clad's hands pinning him to the bed by the skin between his spindly fingers, legs wound tight about_ _his lord and master_

\--The corner of Melkor's lips twitches, a muscle in his jaw shifts, clenches. Mairon lowers his eyes quickly and makes to stand, drawing his robe back up from where it hangs at his waist.

"Thy _service_ is not yet done," says Melkor, his eyes shadow black. Mairon masks his sudden hitched breathing as a clearing of his throat.

"My apologies, Lord Melkor, I—have.. matters to attend. But if it pleases you, I would" _gladly_  "continue my.. services.. when these matters are seen to."

"No. I have seen enough." He passes one last critical eye over Mairon's plainly robed form, utters his words with something akin to disdain and disguist. "That form is a hindrance. Thou hast no hands for holding, nor canst thou even kneel in a proper manner.. I would think thou hast sense enough to be rid of it."

He stalks back inside, leaving Mairon confused, estranged, and enflamed.

* * *

Some days later, Melkor's lieutenant is laying face down upon the wide bed in a little-used room. His robe is shed down to his waist, arms crossed beneath his forehead. A pair of bony, fragmented wings twitch in the air from just above his shoulder blades.

His breathing is quick, but steady, exhausted. He has been trying to redesign the wings into a potentially more productive form, slowly adding the muscles necessary to move the new appendages. Eru may have easily created bats and other winged creatures, and Mairon may have easily replicated the structure of a bat upon his own arms, but _creating_ new wings.. it is a difficult task that requires much of his concentration, many repeated trials and so much of his energy.

So when during his short moment of repose he feels the bed dip at his side, he starts, anger flashing and choice words on his lips for whomever dared intrude upon his quarters. Then cold metal presses upon the back of his neck, a hand wrapped in iron that pushes him back down from where he made to rise on his arms.

"Lie still."

Melkor's rich tone is a searing balm to the pain and weariness in Mairon's mind and body. He settles down again, turning his head when iron recedes to see gauntlets beings removed and falling with a clatter upon the rug next to the bed. The hand returns, now calloused and volcanic-warm, sweeping clumbs of hair off the trembling skin of his back.

"My apologies for not greeting you, my Lord, I—I did not hear you enter." Breathe, he tells himself.  Melkor hand hovers at the base of bare humerus. "..To what do I owe the honor of your presence?"

There is no reply. Only there is a tug at his flesh, perhaps like stitching being pulled, and his flesh follows seemingly without his consent.

"Thy work is slow and impractical," mutters Melkor as he teases strips of muscle from his lieutenant's back. " _Inefficient_ , thou wouldst say, and disappointing."

Where Melkor's hand touches upon, a command is given that echoes in his mind, in his very _being_. It is as if he is being unmade, or remade, but with full consciousness and direction of what is being done. Thin out this bone, lengthen this muscle. Stretch this patch of skin, move blood vessels here, create nerve endings there and _here_ and it is a long, agonizing hour before the sensation of being pulled in every direction ceases.

His breathing is rapid and shallow again; in the haze of dulled pins and needles, a finger traces the line of bone and flesh and skin, furling and unfurling his wing again and again as he had done before. The nerves are plucked and he twitches in response.

For days he had sought to devise and design, first as material sketches on sheafs of paper, what the bone structure should be, the theoretical weight of each limb, the skin, the flesh; for hours he had sought to construct, and had barely even managed the framework close enough to what he planned. No doubt Melkor could have wrenched his bones out of place, had them broken and remade, torn his back to shreds and reconstructed it in a proper manner within a matter of minutes, without even so much as a passing thought. The same way he made his mountains, delved his valleys. The same way he wrenched lava from the depths of Arda.

The same way he reached out and grasped hold of a heart, without even knowing that he had.

"They will fly now."

Melkor sounds—proud. Tired, perhaps, but proud and satisfied, and Mairon imagines he can hear the smile playing across his lips. But Mairon is just tired, too tired to recall that this is what Melkor does best, that if he says it is done then it is done. He forgets for a moment, so he speaks.

"They.. they need to be tested still, my Lord." Mouth dry, he breathes slowly into the coverlet beneath his cheek. His back aches, his shoulders are heavy with the added weight, and his hands can do little but fist the cotton sheets they lay upon. "I had planned to—"

Melkor leans over, his fingers a burning brand bearing down upon the dip in Mairon's back, black ink hair mingling with disheveled locks, lips hovering over his ear.

" _They will fly_."

In a whisk of cloak and clinking mail, Melkor vanishes from the room with his gauntlets. Mairon lies flushed and shuddering on the bed, a burning between his thighs and a yearning in his soul.

The Maia smiles wryly after a moment, flares his wings, and laughs at nothing.

* * *

The Valar will come. They will come, and they will come with ruinous intentions. It is this news that Thuringwethil presents to him, from Valinor itself, upon the very wings Melkor finds displeasing.

When he confirms her report and presents it to Melkor, they prepare for war.


	3. what is mine, is mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the siege of utumno is, for melkor, centuries of pent up rage at the valar, and only so many outlets to relieve it. also, he is possessive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspiration from **the flight from dol guldur** by _uvatha_the_horseman_ and **the burnt god** by _taylor17387_  
>  1 solar years, not valarin  
> 2elves mature physically anywhere between 50-100 years of age.
> 
> unbeta'd and i really don't know what i'm writing anymore x_x

Melkor finds his little side project some hundred years1 into the siege, in the sweltering underground dungeons of Angband. Thangorodrim bellows in contentment, or discontent, bubbling streams of lava when the dungeon's metal grate opens with a deafening shatter.

Mairon is poring over maps in the central room of the tower, listening to the latest reports regarding the status of the siege and the state of his (Melkor's) troops. In the years since they were completed, the population of Orcs has risen slowly, but steadily. Not a grand army, but enough to throw at the Valar if need be.

For all of their corruption, they still behaved much like Elves. Lengthy (albiet violent) courting rituals, brutal rebuttals, and they still died when forced to mate. Mairon is convinced that, with enough research, careful selection, he would be able to present to Melkor a creature that reproduced more frequently without the risk of violent fading. But even in the several generations they've produced, they still take decades to mature2. It's too slow a process.

The back of his neck prickles. A torrent of curses streams directly into his mind, almost numbing in effect, if only because of the Vala they originated from. An Orc crashes through the open door and babbles something about _black_ and _anger_ and _danger, must run_ before Melkor looms in the doorway, a shadow within a shadow. In his eyes the darkness of the Void is reflected, and Mairon's words die in his throat.

What does find its way out is a brief, punctuated cry when Melkor yanks his hair back, curling nightshade locks in his fist. Mairon has only a moment to quirk a corner of his mouth into a smile, eyes wide and surprised but still lifting a hand to ghost over Melkor's clenched jaw.

At least until he's stumbling and trying not to trip over his robes, or Melkor's, as he's led ( _dragged_ ) out of the room by his hair. It isn't what he was expecting.

"Lord Melkor—" Melkor yanks at his hair again and he hisses painfully. "My Lord, please! What—"

" _Still thy tongue_." The Vala speaks lowly, deep, hushed, bristling with anger and his grip does not let up. "Or I shall still it for thee, honeyed though it is."

"I do not understand, my Lord!"

His lip curls into a snarl. Mairon's breath catches again before he is again preoccupied with trying not to lose his footing on the steps and end up being dragged along the ground. In the din of screeching and jeering, he twists his head around with half a mind to deal a blow to any and every Orc and Balrog in sight.

"Do not even _think_ about it."

Melkor's stride never stops, never slows, never pauses except to throw another door open with a resounding crash that raises another round of shouting from elsewhere in the fortress; and even then he takes that moment to coil Mairon's hair tighter around his hand until Mairon futilely claws at the gauntlet, unable to exact any amount of damage and still unsure what has set his Lord into such a rage—

\--until he is unceremoniously thrown through the last door, skidding across the floor of what can only be the dungeons. Melkor is upon him before Mairon can even start to sit up, kneeling beside him, clutching his throat like an eagle to its prey.

"Wilt thou speak falsely to thy lord as thou didst before, Mairon? Wilt thou say that they are impetuous and have disobeyed orders again, O Admirable One? Speak! And do not think to lie to me this time!"

"I would not lie to you, my Lord--!" Mairon coughs hoarsely, clawing again at the black gauntlet he himself crafted. _Only lie with you._ "Truly, I sought only to—to improve them! Only to make them—quicker, stronger, more worthy of you, Lord Melkor—I swear!"

"By whose command?" Melkor snarls, fingers digging into the sides of the Maia's neck until his breath draws thin. "I gave thee no orders, I have granted no permission to imprison my Orcs for thy _games_. Is this treason at last, Mairon? Thou seekest to poison my army before it is begun and deliver me to the Valar?"

" _No_ ," he gasps, nearly sobs, faint and raspy. "I would never think of such a thing, my Lord."

"If _I_ were to give thee to the Valar, then, so that I might be left alone? Wouldst thou think it then?"

The very thought is as chilling as Melkor's tone; not that he might be in the hands of the Valar, or that Melkor would even think of throwing him aside, but the thought that they would then be separated.It is not Melkor’s temper that is shocking—such is the usual for one being pursued for the Valar, perhaps –but such wrath, such violence.. in all the years he has served (and he has served very, very many), Melkor has taken no threats to him, not even when he all but asks for it.

Perhaps, then, this is the result of centuries, millennias' worth of repressed anger. And while the thought of being taken with such ferocity and strength is.. admittedly, appealing... the fact that Melkor is _angry_ is not. In his mind he pleads, _do not send me away, do not let them part us_ , but in his heart he knows Melkor could do it. Looking into the Vala's eyes, black as the Void but not quite as empty, he knows. Melkor _would_ do it, if he had reason enough.

Though Mairon does not think he has done aught to offend the Vala, the fact remains that he did. Melkor is rare to change his mind.

He closes his eyes, swallows painfully. Touches the edge of Melkor's jaw blindly, feels the hardness and the trembling. When he looks again, he wishes he could stand, so that he could kneel.

"Send me, if that would free you," he rasps, whispers, and feathers another touch against Melkor's jaw before laying his hand over the iron claws. "I will take my knee before them, I will tell them nothing. Your name would be the last they hear from my lips."

There is no silence. There is Orcs rattling the cages of their imprisonment, there is Elves wailing in the back, voice roughened by misuse and overuse. There is Balrogs in the doorway, jeering and sneering, and there is other, more minor Spirits, watching with glee in their eyes.

But Melkor is silent and his face fey, stormy, cold. The arm not holding Mairon down rises and jerks; he gestures, and a pair of Balrogs come closer with twisted grins.

"Bind him," Melkor says, and releases his throat. "And bring him to the post."

It's a blur what happens next. Though he is Maia, a spirit, his body is flesh and thus requires air to function. Being deprived of it for so long leaves Mairon lightheaded, surprisingly compliant when the Spirits of Fire haul him up by his arms. His head hangs down, face hidden by a curtain of shadows fluttering gently with shallow breathing and swaying with each forced step.

There might be shame, when his arms are bound above his head. There might be shame, when his robe is split down the back and ripped away. There might be shame, when his hair is fisted and a blade presses to the nape of his neck. The blade is removed when he struggles and his head collides against something hard, hard enough to drone out the laughing and shouting for a minute.

"...understand?"

No.

"Thou seekest to sunder my rule!" He hears the voice in his mind as much as he does through ringing ears. He listens, dull and limp, blinking through strands of ink at the oak wood pattern before his face. "Gothmog has given report of missing Orcs, and found them mangled and dead in thy dungeons. Thou hast said to him they were disobedient. Now I find more, chained, starved, imprisoned without my leave to do so."

Something cold and smooth and pliable taps against the base of his spine.

"What hast thou to say for thyself, O Admirable One?"

He tries to inhale and regrets it; his throat rejects the motion and pinches together, choking and coughing and starting a spiral that doesn't stop.

"For you," he croaks, coughing wetly, and lets his head hang and rest against the wood. "All that I do, I have done only for you, Lord Melkor."

 _'Thou hast said thou wouldst not break so easily.'_ A smooth voice, angered, wrathful. Like cold water washing over a stream of fire. ' _Shall we test thy claim? '_

The first lash is cold, cold ice. They've bound his hands in such a way that he has no way to grasp anything, not even to clench fists and use his nails as a distraction. The second lash burns a line across his shoulder blades, and the third one follows, and the fourth, the fifth, with deadly precision.

By the tenth lash, he does not hear the hiss of leather in the air, the snap of leather upon his back. He does not hear Gothmog silence. He does not hear Thuringwethil's absence. He does not hear that the prisoners have been released, that they are now joining the shrieking and cheering. He does not hear Melkor's rage.

Mairon hears what could be the bubbling of a pit of lava, hissing as it touches the air, searing rivulets across his back. He hears what could be the rumbling of the earth as a mountain is raised. He hears what could be lightning striking the base of a tree, the crack of thunder and the following musty rain. They've left his shoes on and his feet are trapped in dry caked mud.

He does not know he is screaming (or perhaps he had not even begun screaming) until Melkor reaches out and wrenches his _fëa_ from its seclusion, forces it to witness what is transgressing. Disincarnating is an instinct, painfully squashed by Melkor's very presence and the promise he had all but made.

He would not break. The screaming stops, and there is only falling rocks and hissing magma again.


	4. to love immortals, immortally, in immortality.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> melkor finds a better way to deal with the valar. mairon fears for him, and gothmog is a bit too willing. but he is willing.
> 
> or maybe it's just an excuse for me to write vague one-sided gothmog/sauron. or one-sided everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: updated to fix errors with timeline discrepencies.

"The master," Gothmog jeers, "wishes a word with thee, O Admirable One."

"Yes," Mairon murmurs. "Of course he does."

"Ho, now. Dost thou sulk for a change? Fallen from the master's favor? Out of the bed and into the smithy?"

"Silence, Gothmog," Mairon hisses, grabbing with tongs a glowing metal plate from the furnace. "Or I will use thy tongue to cool my steel."

"Wicked mouth," he says, "for a wicked creature."

"Thou knowest nothing of wicked, _Valarauko_." The hammer is heavy in his hand, but he grips it tight nonetheless and looks over his shoulder. "Begone! Tell the master I am ruining his works again. And tell him I shall visit when my work here is done."

"He would have his word _now_."

"I am _occupied_ now, as thou canst see."

"I have been told," says Gothmog, "to bring thee by force, if need be."

A flail of fire materializes, as it were, between clawed fingers. Mairon imagines them gripping, flexing, without and within, and wonders at the thought.

"And I have no doubt thou wouldst enjoy thyself thoroughly." The words surprise him. He plunges the scorching plate into a trough of water, hearing it steam and watching it hiss. "Thou hast proven willing enough to tell him of my business."

He turns and comes chest to chest with the captain. The breastplate shifts, grinds together with each breath that rattles like a rockslide in the _Valarauko_ 's throat. Words die in Mairon's mouth and his eyes fall shut as magmatic breaths puff across his cheek, over his lips.

"No doubt I would."

Scorching hands fall to Mairon's hip and thigh, lifting him onto the worktable with a strength he cannot seem to push away. A flame solid touches the underside of Mairon's chin, tips his head back until the heat bathes his neck and tickles his hair over bared skin.

"The master," Mairon whispers, lowly, in mockery of earlier words, "wishes a word with me."

"He does." Deep, rumbling, vibrating through steel and cloth and skin.  "He has treated thee with an ill hand. Now he will treat thee with an ill tongue."

“Nay.” Hoarse, raspy. He tries to move away from the heat on both sides. “His hands were well laid and his words are well earned.”

“He treats thee with an ill heart.”

The ceiling swims, blurs. The forge burns his back. He knows his head is hanging in the wrong direction, and a whisper passes through his lips and to the ground.

“His heart is stone.”

Lips brush against the back of his neck as water glistens off cobblestone floors.

“Why, then?”

“Why dost thou?”

The heat on his back retreats. The smithy is gone and in its place is a wooden post; the rumbling is instead a deafening silence; the burning on his back is a wet cloth and torn flesh.

“Thou art awake, Lieutenant?”

He shifts his head in a semblance of a nod, eyes unfocused and still seeing rows upon rows of finely polished swords that hang in the depths of his forge, never to be wielded. His hands are cut loose and an arm hooks about his waist before his knees touch ground, holding him in place until he can hold himself in place. A black bundle is put into his arms, after a time.

“Dress. The Master wishes a word with thee.”

Gothmog does not jeer, so Mairon does not scowl.

“Yes. Of course he does. But thou must tell the master his servant has neglected duties to attend.”

The robe is loose and cool, pitch colored. Gothmog’s clawed hands are surprisingly delicate in rearranging the folds and sleeves and extracting damp hair caught in the collar.

“Why art thou dressing me?” Mairon looks at him, or tries to, arms half-raised while Gothmog loops a sash around him.

“Because I know thou wilt see him regardless, and he enjoys seeing thee in this manner.”

Does he?

“No,” Mairon insists, laying a hand over Gothmog’s to still them. “ _Why_ ]?”

The captain does not meet his eyes. Instead, he ties the sash off with a sharp tug that brings Mairon a step closer.

“Because thy heart is not stone.”

Quietly: “If it were?”

“Then,” equally quiet, hushed, burning lips far closer than is proper, “I would do as thou hast. And perhaps thou wouldst not treat me with the same ill hand.”

Mairon inhales fire and brimstone; turns, whisks away, leaving behind the tattered remains of what he had been wearing days ago at Gothmog’s feet.

<hr>

He wishes a word, the master does. A strange request, for it is more often he would receive a mental summons, sometimes even direct orders. Rare it is that Melkor would send a messenger, unless he or Mairon were overly engrossed in their affairs. Or, in Mairon's case, otherwise incapacitated.

He wishes a word. He wishes it now.

Their chanbers are buried deep underground, deep enough that heat radiates from the walls and floor, and that every now and again a rivulet of gleaming red will seep from cracks in the ceiling. Not unlike the trickle of water in a cave.

Mairon leaves his boots at the entrance, lifting the hem of the robe ever slight enough that it won't be trod on, leaving the rest to trail behind him like a river of shadow tinged with flames from the lava underneath. Here, only here, this deep beneath the surface, does he begin the wordless singing of olden times. Mild, melodious, a song rich with history they could never imagine. Melkor's tone is deeper, thicker, like lava bubbling up from a pit, or the grinding earth. It's an incomplete melody.

They watch the magma flow, sometimes. Mairon has his hidden behind a screen, but half of Melkor's room is a crack in the ground, split open wide to show the blood of the earth. There sits Melkor, at the lip of the crack, clad only in trousers, hair running down his back.

Singing softly still, Mairon picks up the robe at the foot of the bed and drapes it over Melkor's shoulders, waiting for the Vala to put his arms through. When he stands, Mairon pulls the robe closed and ties it shut with a sash, pressing closer to turn out the collar, fingers skimming along his neck and shoulders.

"Wilt thou not indulge in him?"

"..My lord?"

"Gothmog. He hast taken a liking to thee, Mairon."

Melkor's eyes follow him as he kneels with a pair of grieves in hand, delicately tacking them with the faintest of touches to the inside of Melkor's thigh. He looks up, without moving his head, and begins to tack up the other leg.

"Yes, I have known."

"Yet thou wilt refuse him still."

Mairon's hands pause momentarily while pulling a belt through its buckle. His own making, as much of the armor here is.

"..Aye. I will." _As you have_.

Fire is reflected in the black of Melkor's eyes, flickering, cold and steely.

"Why? He is willing."

"He is only enamoured."

"Ah." Melkor murmurs, thoughtful. "As thou art."

Mairon lowers his head and continues his task. Cloth pulls at the wounds on his back.

"As I am."

The rest of Melkor's armor is put in place quietly and with less brazenness, only a fleeting touch upon Melkor's brow as he sets the helm. As he fits it over Melkor's head, he imagines he is holding Melkor's face; and when Melkor decides to adjust the helm himself, he imagines (hopes. wishes.) there is more than the wastes of the Helcaraxe pressing against the backs of his hands.

Imagines (hopes. believes. tries to believe.) that when Melkor walks out of Angband in his armor he will return in this same armor, nothing more and nothing less. Because the Valar are here, and they are here with ruinous intentions.

Later, Mairon will be told to join Melkor in Utumno as soon as possible and defend the keep. Later, he will find and have a word with Gothmog as well, because Mairon's heart is not stone and Gothmog is only enamoured. Later, he will retire to the forges of Angband and complete what had been begun of the new fortifications before he departs for Utumno, and think no more of Orcs in the dungeons or the lashes on his back. Later, Angband will be stricken and Utumno destroyed. Later, Melkor will be taken to Aman and Mairon will have had no chance to defend the keep.

Now, his hands are still stiff under Melkor's, jostled by Melkor's impatience. Now, there is a frown and wrinkles marring an otherwise perfect face. Only enamoured.

He lowers his eyes and leans in closer.


End file.
